A swing with rough rope strings

By a mountain cottage near a lake

Below me lie fields of grey green

Look at the scenery with a dull ache

My beige shoes are now above the horizon

Of the lake miles and miles below

Swing backward, my shoes brush the dirt then

The air suspends and time seems to slow 

Swing up high again, my back almost parallel

To the grassy ground 10 feet below 

If I slipped off this swing at this height and fell

I'd fall to my death some feet below

But isn't it so magical to just imagine

Slipping off the swing and fly so high

Fly over the treetops and wood cabins

And if I fall from here to fall up into the sky...